Give Me Strength
by swatton42
Summary: No habitual vices, personal eccentricities or friendly and supportive interaction would be enough to reduce the acrid scent of fear being held fast in the thick atmosphere surrounding him. Fear of what, exactly, he wasn't sure. Fear of death? Fear of the unknown? Fear of the past? No, he wasn't sure, but he would not have to wait long. That, he knew.


**Author's Note: **_Hi all! This was written for Smeagolia's Phobia challenge, it's a little different to what I would normally write, but hey that's what challenges are for in my opinion! It was written in a few hours so yes it is short and any mistakes are my own, but hey, enjoy!_

The familiar weight in his hand, the soft click against the still air and the faint wisp of heat caressing his face was not enough to offer even a pinch of comfort and reassurance in the pressing gloom of the evening. Normally that first drag would bring a sense of relief mixed in with the satisfying flavour he had become accustomed to. Not today. Not with the events of the evening still to take place. No, not today. No habitual vices, personal eccentricities or friendly and supportive interaction would be enough to reduce the acrid scent of fear being held fast in the thick atmosphere surrounding him. Fear of what, exactly, he wasn't sure. Fear of death? Fear of the unknown? Fear of the past? No, he wasn't sure, but he would not have to wait long. That, he knew. And with that thought alone the proverbial demon working in his mind only seemed to pull him further into the clutches of the dark night beyond his conscious.

In an attempt to break away from the dangerous path his own thoughts were leading him towards, he looked out from his vantage point to survey the world below him. Watching the world from the lofty summit of a mountain of bricks, mortar and steel he was empowered. He could silently tell the world that he was in control. He had strength. Nothing could break him. That's what he told himself anyway. Heights were the route to his inner power. Heights and nicotine. Although, not tonight. No, not tonight.

'Are you always such a bloody ponce?' He turned towards the voice that had shattered the weighty silence of his evening. 'Lighten up, Malfoy. I can tell by the way you're standing all introspective and broody that you're thinking something far too wordy and complicated and upper class-ish for this evening. You'll build yourself up into such a state that you'll be scared before you even walk into the challenge.'

'O really Potter, if you can read me so well then what, pray tell, am I thinking now?' Harry watched with a grin far too overly goofy for the presiding mood of the evening as his blonde companion flicked ash over the side of the open roof level car park wall he was leaning on.

'Number one, you're thinking that no-one should ever use "introspective" and "upper class-ish" in the same sentence, in fact they should make it law that it is never to be used in that style again. More importantly, number two, you're amazed I know the word "introspective".' Despite himself Draco felt the corner of his lips twitch upwards into the beginnings of a smirk. In the past year of auror training he had grown rather fond of the scruffy haired imbecile stood beside him. The twit didn't have to try, he would walk in a room and everyone would see his strength and power pulsing from under his very skin. Even when he was clumsily splashing half brewed potion over his own shoes everyone knew they were in the presence of power. Draco had always found it would make his palms start to sweat and he would busy his hands with cigarettes, or quills, or coffee cups to hide the twitching tremors that never failed to develop. After countless hours of analysing these reactions he had still been unable to pinpoint why.

'You're doing it again, Malfoy. Quit thinking and talk to me, at least it will make the waiting time seem shorter. So, you've seen the instructions, mines easy, I'll get dementors again. The fear of fear itself and all that shit. But what about you? What you gonna get? I seem to remember you bottling out of facing the boggart in third year with the lame-o excuse of a poor arm the mean ickle-lickle hippogriff scratch-… Oww! Thanks for that you bastard!' Draco couldn't hold the snigger that tumbled past his lips while Harry wiped cigarette ash from his now mildly singed left eyebrow.

'I can't say I understand your complaint your high and mighty saviour of wizard-kind. I merely helped trim the atrocity that you called a brow, would his wonderfulness require assistance with the other?' The green-eyed glare only served to recommence his laughter. Dropping his stub to the floor, he toed out the residual embers with the heavy duty sole of his ministry provided regulation apparel. Hardly the height of fashion but at least they were flame retardant. With a sigh and a minor spark of possible enlightenment he continued, 'Fire, maybe? What happened in the room of requirement has clung to my memory with delightful efficiency… Or the cruciatus curse, I've got a plentiful bank of painful memories of that too.' Harry's response was little more than an indistinct grumble. Not that it mattered as the loud thud of the trunk falling to the ground a few meters in front of them served as a sufficient distraction.

Casually strolling over and scanning the attached note, if at all possible Harry's relaxed posture seemed to ease even further.

'They ain't very chatty are they? Just says they'll be watching and that you're up first so chuck us your wand ferret-features!' Draco made the conscious decision to take that request literally and aimed for Harry's overly stress-free countenance, sadly he hadn't accounted for the fact Harry had never quite let go of the figurative broom-handle. His seeker abilities were still far to in abundance for his face to be at risk from being impaled by ten inches of flying hawthorn.

Irritatingly, Harry used it as a fake moustache to match his "Professor voice". 'Take a minute to mentally prepare yourself for this momentous task young Malfoy. On your signal, I shall indeed open the trunk…'

'I never thought I would stoop so low as to use this in civilised conversation, especially with you Potter, but I agree with your freckled faced creature you call a friend. You really are a giant tit.' This was it. The moment of the evening had finally arrived. The stench of fear seemed to quadruple in his nostrils, the claws belonging to that demon seemed to sharpen and lengthen until he could feel the tips scratching at his eyes from within. Yes, this was the moment. He knew it had been coming. The final challenge of auror training. At its heart it was a simple challenge. Stand in front of a boggart. The challenge came in the fact that you had to stand in the presence of your greatest fear - with no wand - in front of a partner assigned for the task. Yes, the real challenge was allowing someone to witness you at your most vulnerable and do nothing to hide your fears, do nothing to save yourself from the single thing that would turn your most cherished dream into a living nightmare. You had to show you could trust another when you were at your lowest. That was the single thing that would make or break a hopeful auror in training, after all if you could not trust your partner with your life, you would amount to nothing in the field. With the slightest nod to show he was ready the trunk opened…

Nothing quite showed a person's true personality as their greatest fear. The saviour that gracefully emerged from the trunk seemed to have all his perfected assets heightened further in this form. He was the epitome of strength and power. It made Draco sick with his own insignificance and failings. He was weak. So very weak. And the Harry before him made sure he knew it. He had the audacity to voice the fact for all in the vicinity to hear. Draco finally understood what all the tremors and sweaty palms were about. He was weak. The demon that had been so desperate to claw its way free finally succeeded as his vision swam before him.

As his world tilted, fell and faded to black Draco felt cool fingers wrap around his slender wrist. His final thought before he was taken fully from consciousness was his wrist suddenly felt just a little bit stronger.

**Author's Note: **_For anyone that was wondering, the fear I was given was Asthenophobia - the fear of fainting or weakness, which I actually found quite a interesting one to try and write for. I've intentionally left the stories meanings and history open to interpretation, I hope you enjoyed it. As always, read and review! _

_Much love! Swatts!_


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